A Pathetic Ballad.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,

And ne’er had seen the skies:

For Mature, when his head was made,

Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue,

Poor Tim was forc’d to do —

Look out for pupils, for he had

A vacancy for two.

There’s some have specs to help their sight

Of objects dim and small:

But Tim had specks within his eyes,

And could not see at all.

Now Tim he woo’d a servant-maid,

And took her to his arms;

For he, like Pyramus, had cast

A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down

Where’er he wished to jog,

A happy wife, altho’ she led

The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had liv’d a month

In honey with his wife,

A surgeon ope’d his Milton eyes,

Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were open’d thus,

He wish’d them dark again:

For when he look’d upon his wife,

He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse,

He couldn’t bear to eat:

For she was any thing but like

A Grace before his meat.

Tim he was a feeling man:

For when his sight was thick,

It made him feel for every thing —

But that was with a stick.

So with a cudgel in his hand —

It was not light or slim —

He knocked at his wife’s head until

It open’d unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold,

He took his slaughter’d spouse,

And laid her in a heap with a............